Guilt

Christina hadn't called him, and he hadn't called her.

Then, all day today, the sexual tension, and Farrell seemed to take extra care that Mark and Christina were never alone.

At home after another late dinner and another day of jury selection, Dooher changed into a pair of khakis and a black cotton sweater. Then, barefoot, he wandered downstairs into his library and stood at the window.

Christina was coming up the walk, through the gate into the patio. Except for the kitchen lights, the house was dark. Snooping media types might believe that the house was empty. He opened the door. 'Can you see?'

'Fine.'

They got to the kitchen. She wore the hood up on a heavy ski parka. Flipping the parka back, she blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. 'Okay, I'm nervous.'

He stepped forward and gathered her in. When he released her, there was no kiss. He gave her a wistful half-smile, then retreated to the counters. 'Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some wine? You want to take off your coat?'

She said wine would be good and shrugged out of the parka, draping it over one of the stools. Mark busied himself in the refrigerator, getting out the bottle, opening it, taking down the glasses. Coming over to her, he slid a glass before her and pulled up another stool. He held up his glass and she touched it, a ringing chime. 'Just so you understand, Christina,' he began, 'I didn't plan on this. On yesterday.'

'I didn't either. It's not the kind of thing you plan.'

Mark sipped his wine. 'And now I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how you feel. I don't know anything.'

'Do you know how you feel?'

'Not really. Confused, I suppose. Guilty as hell, though in this context that's a poor choice of words. I mean…'

She reached over and covered his hand. 'I know what you mean. You think it's still too soon.'

'I don't know what "too soon" is. But I know what this is, what yesterday was.'

'Me, too.'

He smiled at her. 'I'm not talking about the feeling.'

She squeezed his hand. 'I am.'

He moved his hand away. 'No. It's more than that, and I don't think I can trust it. I don't trust it.'

'What?'

'You and I being thrown together like this, the stress of this situation. You helping to defend me, me dependent on you. It's a false environment.'

'Driving us together through no fault of our own?'

He put his glass down and broke a lopsided grin. 'You're making fun of me.'

She leaned toward him. 'A bit.'

'Okay, but I'm being serious. I think we deserve a better chance than that. Especially, that you do.' He sighed. 'I never thought I would love anybody again, and now here it is and the timing's all wrong. Everything's all wrong.'

'Not everything,' she said.

'Almost.'

She was shaking her head. 'You feel like you love me. And I love you. That's not almost everything wrong – that's almost everything right.'

He twirled his wine glass, tiny circles on the counter. 'And if they find me guilty of murder, I don't get out of prison until you're older than I am now.'

'They won't find you guilty. You didn't do it.'

'I would have said they'd never have gotten me to trial because I didn't do it. But guess what?'

She sipped her wine. 'So what are you saying?'

He looked down, sighed again, raised his eyes. 'I'm trying to tell you I love you,' he said, 'and I've got two temptations. The first is to take you upstairs and not think about what any of it means or where it might go.'

'I choose door one,' she said.

He reached over and touched her face. 'And the second is to pretend it isn't here, none of this, to pretend that yesterday was a moment of weakness. But I don't think it was. I think it was real, so real I'm terrified we're going to threaten it.'

'And how would we do that, threaten it?'

He closed his eyes briefly and took a last deep breath. 'By doing anything about it.' He went on: 'Right now we're in a pressure cooker. I think we ought to wait until we're out of it, until we can see where we are.'

'I know where I'll be. I'll be right here.'

'If you are, so will I. So maybe we should acknowledge this – what we have, this connection – and then put it on a shelf until the time is right.'

'And when will that be, Mark?'

'When this is over. When they find me not guilty. It shouldn't be long now, a couple of weeks, a month. After the drama and the prying eyes, then we'll see where we are. But this… I don't trust it. It would be too easy for both of us to get caught up in the romance of it.'

'I don't think so.'

'It's not a matter of thinking, Christina. The reality is persuasive enough. Here I am, the classic tragic figure – innocent man unfairly accused – and you are my savior.' He softened things, covering her hand with his. 'I'm not saying the feeling isn't there. I'm saying maybe it's not us – the real people we are – feeling them. It's the roles we're in, and they're temporary. And I can't have us be temporary. I couldn't live with that.'

Her eyes held steadily on him, and suddenly a spark of humor flared. 'The last noble man in America, and I had to go and find him.' She came forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, holding them there. 'You don't trust the rush, do you?'

'The rush isn't going away, Christina. If the real stuff is here, the rush will find its way back.'

She kissed him again. 'Okay.' Searching his face. 'In the meantime, I'll be a professional, I won't feed the gossip mills, I won't give them any ammunition. But when this is over, this is fair warning. I'm going to be here. For you.'

The Chronicle photographer with the night-vision camera caught them kissing at the front door – nothing passionate, although they did stand together, embracing, for nearly two minutes, saying good night. It was plenty.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

The gallery wasn't a presence for Glitsky anymore.

Mark Dooher's fate was going to be determined inside the Bar rail. Glitsky glanced across the courtroom at the defense table and felt his blood quicken with hate. It was a reaction he rarely felt. He had dealt with many despicable people, many of whom had committed heinous crimes, but his own feelings for them had almost never gotten personal.

Dooher was different. Not only had he attacked Glitsky on a variety of grounds, threatening his career and reputation – the reverberations were still echoing – but killing his wife… that struck at the heart of things.

The defendant sat, his expression serene, while on either side of him, his acolytes tried not to appear nervous and angry, though to Glitsky's practiced eye, they were failing. This, he knew, was probably in reaction to the Chronicle's story and accompanying picture – Dooher and Christina kissing on his darkened front porch.

Christina's mouth was set, her eyes cast downward. She was pretending to read from a folder in front of her, but she looked up too often to be reading.

Wes Farrell seemed somewhat cooler. He was a pro and knew you didn't show your feelings to the jurors, but Glitsky had overheard him answering one of Dooher's questions at the defense table. The two men didn't seem to be best friends anymore.

In spite of Thomasino's detailed approach to questioning prospective jurors, once he had winnowed out the people who'd known about the case and the other obvious exclusions – victims of other crimes, family members of law-enforcement people – jury selection had gone rapidly. Now it was Thursday of the first week, the lunch recess was behind them, and the show was getting under way.

Amanda had told Glitsky that she didn't subscribe to the belief that there was a fine art to picking members of the jury. In spite of all the fancy theories people had, it was more or less a crap shoot. Evidently Wes Farrell felt the same way. Amanda basically preferred married women to single men for this type of case, and Asians if she could get them, but those seemed to be her only criteria. Farrell liked men who had jobs. But both attorneys seemed inclined, mostly, to keep things moving.